


The Death of Duty; The Bane of Honor

by TheIceDragons



Series: The Wolf that steals the Dragon [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And kinda misses Sansa, F/M, Fem jon is trying, Female Jon Snow, Hot Pie - Freeform, Inspired by Fanfiction, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Male Daenerys Targaryen, POV Arya Stark, Period-Typical Sexism, Queen in the North, R plus L equals J, Slow Burn, The North remembers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-01-30 03:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12644820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIceDragons/pseuds/TheIceDragons
Summary: He rode through the streets of the citydown from his hill on highOver the wynds and the steps and the cobbleshe rode to a woman's sighFor she was his secret treasureshe was his shame and his blissAnd a chain and a keep are nothingcompared  to a woman’s kissFor hands of gold are always cold but a woman's hands are warm.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Dragon King and Northern Queen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12556708) by [mywishingglass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywishingglass/pseuds/mywishingglass). 



**_He rode through the streets of the city_ **

 

**_down from his hill on high_ **

 

**_Over the wynds and the steps and the cobbles_ **

 

**_he rode to a woman's sigh_ **

 

**_For she was his secret treasure_ **

 

**_she was his shame and his bliss_ **

 

**_And a chain and a keep are nothing_ **

 

**_compared  to a woman’s kiss_ **

 

**_For hands of gold are always cold but a woman's hands are warm._ **

* * *

 

**_The She-Wolf_ **

   

The sounds of them choking on their own blood and vomit resounded within her mind. The looks of terror that slowly transitioned from bravado, as they realized they were coming to a slow end.  The horrifying resignation on the old crooked lord's face as she peered down into his eyes, opening his throat with her knife. _Black Walder was the hardest one to carve,_ she had whispered into his ear. She tried to drain it all out with the sounds that filled the Inn at the Crossroads, but it was more demure since she's seen it last. A far cry from the lively Inn that it once was years ago. The man drink, but never do they toast or jest and sing bawdy songs.  They count their coins contemplating on whether they should buy just one more drink to warm their bellies for the night or go home to their wives. _Is it really worth it?,_ they think, _winter is here._  The woman aren't as loose, their breast hidden under woolen dresses, as sober as she's ever seen them.  They don't try to lure the men in, sit and rock on their hips, or show a little cleavage here, a little leg there.  It is too cold for such allure, and the wars that ravaged the lands served them many violations and defilement that could probably last a lifetime.  They're intent on working, on getting good pay, and perhaps if they stayed focused, if they stayed on track the mistress would give them a little more. If only a little. _For_ _winter is here,_ and they must help their family buy enough bread and wood and furs that can last them. But she could really use some music right now, if only to drive the voices of pain and terror away. _No-one_ can kill easily enough but it's Arya that has to deal with the screams that plague her.

 

The smell of onions, potatoes, meat and warmed crust wafts in her nose, and she inhales deeply. Only one person could make pies this good and he comes into her view before she can recall his name. “Ary!” his forever chubby face comes into view, if only a little mature.  He’s changed little since she's seen him last, and that strangely comforted her somewhat.  To have someone from her past that was still the same, when her world has drifted a thousands times over.  From Arya Underfoot, the little girl who wanted to play with swords more than dolls, to Arry the little orphan boy, then the girl with nowhere to go and no one to run to( _so she stopped running and went to one place where she didn't have to run from anything_ ). She became Mercy, a blind beggar girl, and No-one.  She doesn't know who she is _now_.

 

“Hello, Hot Pie. Sit down,” he pulls out a seat, plopping himself onto it, the surprise never drifting away. She looks at the tray of pie that initially garnered her attention. “Who’s that for?” he scooted it over to her and she reaches for it.

 

She grabs the spoon next to it, digging into the brittle crust, puncturing it's exterior. She blows the heat away shoving a spoon full of it into her mouth, savoring the taste.  It was good, better than good.  Only Hot Pie could make pies this good. She voices her thoughts, letting out a moan, she doesn't miss the way he blushes at it, “This is good,”.

 

The look of excitement glints in his eyes, as it always does when someone compliments his culinary skill, “You think so? The secret is browning the butter before making the dough. Most people don't do that because it takes up too much time.”.  

 

“I didn't do that,” had she done so she probably wouldn't have made it far enough to feed them to Walder Frey.  It does take up too much time.

 

“You've been making pies?” he raises an eyebrow. She briefly pauses, before continuing her meal.

 

“One or two,” and the sick humor of it goes unnoticed by him.

 

“I can't believe you're here,” he says after a few heart paces, “Did you meet the big lady?”

 

“Big lady?”

 

“The lady knight,” he says it as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. He shrugs, “I figured she was a knight because she had armor on.  She was looking for your sister but I told her about you.  Did she ever find you?”

 

She thinks back on that moment, the last moment she ever saw the Hound, where she left him for dead. But deep down she knew… “She found me,” _I wonder, how everything would have turned out, where I would be now, if she hadn't._

 

She wonders if he heard the longing in her voice for her hated traveling companion, the name scratched off her list, the only friend she had left. “What happened to you Ary?” _that little girl died a long time ago. You now talk to a stranger, a hollow shell of the girl that once was._ Her only purpose in life had been to find her family, the little she had left.  Now all her family is dead, her only purpose is to avenge them.  So she keeps silent, lets him believe that she's that same little girl, like he's that same little boy.  If only he looked with his eyes, instead of his mind or heart, the illusion they casted before him.   _Opening your eyes is all that is needing. The heart lies and the head plays tricks with us, but the eyes see true. Look with your eyes,_ a voice from a distant memory sounds, it has faded through time, she can no longer her the distinct accent or the playful tint, but she can hear the faded whisper.   _Winter is here._

 

 _“_ You got any ale?” her throat is suddenly dry.

 

Arya’s never been one to drink, but she needs it now, lest she be consumed with rage and sorrow for all those who are lost to her now, nothing but faded voices and distant memories. He reaches for a pitcher but she takes it from him, pouring herself a cup and drinking greedily. “Where are you heading?”.

 

The only place she wants to go, the only way she can truly avenge her family, the only way she can live with herself while the rest of her family lay dead in unmarked graves.  They all died. Father, Mother, Robb, Bran, Rickon, perhaps even Lyarra long before any of them did.  She hasn't heard of her in what seems like ages, not since the night she left Winterfell behind, the night she gave her Needle and kissed her goodbye. _The only one she said goodbye to_ . She wonders if Lyarra had known what would have befallen their family, would she have stayed to say goodbye to everyone else, wondered if she would've left at all.   _None of them could have known. But I lived, and the gods saw to it that I witnessed half of them be slaughtered. Leaving me with nothing but fragments of the girl I once was._ How she yearns for the days when her only worries were getting out of embroidery lessons or besting Bran at archery. But those days are gone.“King’s Landing,”

 

“Why?” _Why do people always ask that?_

 

“I heard Cersei’s the only one who sits the throne now,”

 

“I heard she blew up the Great Sept.  That must have been something to see,” he makes a gesture with his hand to showcase it, “Boom.”

 

“Hmm,” is her only response as she nods. _Of course she would do something like that, she's done worse_.

 

“I can't believe someone would do that,” _the gods bless your pure heart Hot Pie_.

 

“Cersei would do that,” _and she isn't just anyone._

 

“I thought you'd be heading for Winterfell,” that took her aback. Out of all places, the last place she'd go to is Winterfell.  She can't believe that the place she grew in is the last place she'd go.

 

“Why would I go there? The Bolton’s have it,” and she'd have to make sure she got their names.

 

Hot Pie shakes his head, “ No. the Bolton’s are dead.” surely he exaggerates, but then again, _all man can fall,_ it's in their nature.

 

“What?”

 

“You know that sister of yours you always talked about? Well, she's been at the Wall the whole time,” she suddenly can't breathe. Lyarra is alive. She isn't alone and Lyarra is alive. “She came down from Castle Black with a Wildling Army and won the Battle of Bastards. She's the Queen of the North now.” It's to good to be true, it can't be true, nothing good ever happens to her. _All man can fall._

 

“You're lying,” but she knows he isn't, knows he speaks truly.

 

“Why would I lie about that?” he stares incredulously. Why would he lie about that? She quickly gathers her things, as if the gods themselves would take this from her, as they have always done.  That she will come and it will be too late.

 

“Thanks for the pie,” she adds, hurriedly digging into her pouch for some golden dragons.  But he quickly declined.

 

“Friends don't pay,” she smiles at that.  She's glad he hasn't changed, rarely do you find people are genuine and kind, like a needle in a haystack. “I can't believe I thought you were a boy.  You're pretty.” She's taken aback, no one has ever called her pretty, save Lyarra and father.  Sansa was always the pretty, talented one.

 

“Thanks.”she walks past him resting a hand on his shoulder. “Take care of yourself Hot Pie.  Try not to get killed.” if the gods are willing.

 

“No I won't.  I'm like you Ary, I'm a survivor,” you're stronger than I am, after everything, your heart is still good.

 

She leaves the Inn, heading north. Heading home, to Lyarra.

 

* * *

 

**_The Last Dragon_ **

 

The storm rages on outside, echoing throughout the castle almost ominously.  Lighting strikes and he can see flashes of it through the window, casting it's brightness into the dimly lit room.  He runs his fingers over the painted table, the figurines of all the houses of Westeros standing proudly.  Well, all those that remained.  He’s here, he’s finally here and yet he’s felt more at home as an exiled prince in Essos than a king in Westeros.  He can feel himself becoming restless with every passing moment he spends on the dreary foreboding island, and his dragon's mirror the same.  He breathes in, trying to calm the storm within him, the thoughts raging inside his head.  If anything the storm mirrors his attitude more than the dragons.  Stormborn was his namesake after all.

 

“On a night like this, you came into the world,” Tyrion tries to break through the uneasy silence, which seems to work for everyone else but him.

“I remember that storm. All the dogs in King's Landing howled through the night.” Varys adds in hopes of igniting the conversation.  
  
“I wish I could remember it.” he finally sounds.  He wish he could remember a lot of things about his home, but all he has is the stories of others to go by.   _I don't know the land I wish to rule over, but it won't be the first._  He remembers the stories Viserys used to tell him, when they were both still young and he wasn't so cruel. When they lived in the house with the red door, and the big lemon tree by his bedroom window. _Before he sold me away_ .  
  
He turns away from the storm raging outside the window and placing both hands on the table.  
  
“I always thought this would be a homecoming. It doesn't feel like home.” he voices his opinions. He refuses to pretend like this isn't what it is. And this is not his home.  
  
“We won't stay on Dragonstone for long.” Tyrion reassuringly states.  
  
“Good.” he doesn't wish to stay here any longer than he has to.  He can recall the tales his brother used to spin, when he managed to anger him, when he woke the dragon.  Of him coming into the world on this very island, on a day much like this,ripping their mother's body apart, draining her of her blood and life.   _You killed her_ , he would say, bringing down blows onto his frail body, whether it be with his fist or a thick stitch that would open up the skin on his back.  

 

His patience is beginning to test him and He can feel himself failing. He snaps himself out of his daze, gazing at the wooden figurines once again.

“There aren't so many lions about,” he states matter of factly, and the thought gives him more confidence. A divided kingdom is an easy kingdom to conquer, especially when the people hold no love for their current ruler.  Yet still, would they easily side with the Mad king's son?  Do they even see him as a better alternative?  
  
“Cersei controls fewer than half the Seven Kingdoms. The lord of Westeros despise her. Even before your arrival, they plotted against her. Now…” he quickly cuts him off, the last thing he needs is sweet lies and guided words. It's what drove Viserys to his state of madness, no one wanted to tell him the truth, fed him lies, built up his ego with nothing to show for it. He needed it least of all from his advisor's. And least of all from him.  
  
“They cry out for their true king? They drink secret toasts to my health?” he walks closer to the Spider, his ire rising.  He hasn't forgotten the part he played in all of this, hasn't forgotten the part he played in his years of suffering or the fall out between him and his brother. “People used to tell my brother that sort of thing, and he was stupid enough to believe them.” he says through gritted teeth, hands balled in a fist. It had made his brother more desperate, more hungry and impatient.  All to the point where he was convinced to sell his own brother like cattle, from the pleasure houses of Astapor to the fighting pits of Meereen.  He watched as his little brother's body was beaten, chained and violated, all for his promised crown.

 

He looks down at the wooden three headed dragon, before picking it up, thumb tracing over it's exterior. “If Viserys had three dragons and an army at his back, he'd have invaded King's Landing already.”  
  
“Conquering Westeros would be easy for you. But you're not here to be king of the ashes. You are not your father and people would paint you as such, unless you wish to be regarded as the Mad King come again.”.  
  
“No, of course not.” he puts down the dragon figurine.  
  
“We can take the Seven Kingdoms without turning it into a slaughterhouse. If the great houses support your claim against Cersei, the game is won. With the Tyrell army and the Dornish on our side, we have powerful allies in the south.”  
  
“I never properly thanked you for that.” he eyes Varys’s again with wariness.  
  
“They joined our side, your grace, because they believe in you,” despite the cold and dampness, he can see beads of sweat form on the man's bald head, can see him slowly swallow.  Good, let him now that I am wary of him, that he cannot easily fool me as he has fooled others.  
  
“You served my father, didn't you, Lord Varys?” you watched as he burned people alive, never batting an eye, as long you were untouched.  
  
“I did.” his stomach lurches a little.  
  
“And then you served the man who overthrew him?” even after he was presented with the bodies of my niece and nephew, after he slew my brother at the Trident. Served him when my mother was surrounded and hopeless, when my brother and I were sent into exile.  
  
“I had a choice, Your Grace--serve Robert Baratheon or face the headman's axe.” he scoffs, and the bald man flinched a little.  
  
“But you didn't serve him long. You turned against him.” _anyone can betray anyone_ , a familiar voice reminded him. A lover long gone now.  
  
“Robert was an improvement on your father, to be sure. There have been few rulers in history as cruel as the Mad King. Robert was neither mad nor cruel. He simply had no interest in being king.” he explained.  
  
“So you took it upon yourself to find a better one.” to find me. “And how long before you feel I'm not fit to be king, before you discard me as you have done others.”  
  
“Your Grace, when I was ready to drink myself into a small coffin, Lord Varys told me about a king in the east who--” Tyrion tries to interject but he cuts him off, his reason falling on deaf ears.  
  
“Before I came to power, you favored my brother. All your spies, your little birds, did they tell you Viserys was cruel, stupid, and weak? Would those qualities have made for a good king in your learned opinion?”  
  
“Until your liberation, Your Grace, I knew nothing about you, save your existence and that you were said to be quite young.” Why did he insists on defending himself, when he knows he is in the wrong?   _Nothing he says will justify it in my eyes._  
  
“So you and your friends watched from afar as my brother traded me like a prized horse to the Dothraki.” that did nothing to abate the anger building inside.  Everyone seemed to go tense.  They knew how he felt about slavery, knew of what he endured by the hands of different masters, knew how passionate he was to end the suffering it caused to others.  To know this man had a part to play...  
  
“Which you turned to your advantage.” his scowl deepens at that.  He has a point, had that never happened, he doesn't know where he would be now.  Had Khal Drogo not taken him in, as a bloodrider all in but name.  Had he not met her, with her beautiful dark hair that flowed like a black river, eyes the color of onyx, and skin a soft brown.  He still remembered her smell, the smell of horses mixed in with the fresh scent of sweet fruits from every corner of the world. He remembers that she wasn't his, that she belonged to the man he called friend, who he called master. _Anyone can betray anyone._  
  
“Who gave the order to kill me?” he states flatly.  
  
“King Robert.”  
  
“Who hired the assassins?” the only response he receives is silence as he walks closer. “Who sent word to Essos to murder Daeron Targaryen?”  
  
“Your Grace, I did what had to be done to--”  
  
“To keep yourself alive.” Daeron cuts him off once again. It becomes deathly silent again, only the quieting thunder can be heard.  
  
“Lord Varys has proven himself a loyal servant.” Tyrion says almost pleadingly.  
  
“Proven himself loyal? Quite the opposite. If he dislikes one monarch, he conspires to crown the next one. What kind of a servant is that?” the Spider seems to be past his limit at this point, just what Daeron wanted.  To see his true self, raw and honest in all.  
  
“The kind the realm needs. Incompetence should not be rewarded with blind loyalty. As long as I have my eyes, I'll use them. I wasn't born into a great house. I came from nothing. I myself was sold as a slave and carved up as an offering. When I was a child, I lived in alleys, gutters, abandoned houses. You wish to know where my true loyalties lie? Not with any king or queen, but with the people. The people who suffer under despots and prosper under just rule. The people whose hearts you aim to win. If you demand blind allegiance, I respect your wishes. Grey Worm can behead me or your dragons can devour me. But if you let me live, I will serve you well. I will dedicate myself to seeing you on the Iron Throne because I choose you. Because I know the people have no better chance than you.” that is all he wanted.  Honesty, he will not suffer sweet nothing's like some maid, or guided words to build his ego.  It is the downfall of many men, but it will never be him.  He wanted to know the man's heart, his goal and true intentions. Wanted to know where his loyalties lied, other than with himself. It comforts him at least, to know it laid with the people above all else.  
  
“Swear this to me, Varys. If you ever think I'm failing the people, you won't conspire behind my back. You'll look me in the eye as you have done today, and you'll tell me how I'm failing them.”  
  
“I swear it, your Grace” he says earnestly.  
  
“And I swear this--if you ever betray me, I'll burn you alive.” a pleased grin twist onto his face as Varys manages to smile back, with a hint of unease.  
  
“I would expect nothing less from the Father of Dragons.”  
  
“Forgive me, my king. A red priestess from As'shai has come to see you.” Grey Worm’s thick accent breaks through the tension of the room, garnering everyone's attention.

* * *

 

A woman clothed in scarlet garb stood before the rocky throne. As they approached, strange heat seemed to radiate from her very being, and her movements were swift and graceful, as she bowed her head. “King Daeron. I was a slave once, bought and sold, scourged and branded. It is an honor to meet the Breaker of Chains.” she says in a smooth Valyrian tongue. She meets his face with a smile and he returns it in kind.    
  
“The Red Priests helped bring peace to Meereen. You are very welcome here. What is your name?” he responds.  
  
“I am called Melisandre.”  
  
A spark of realisation edges on Varys face at the name, “She once served another who wanted the Iron Throne. It didn't end well for Stannis Baratheon, did it?”  
  
“No,” their is faint regret in her voice, a glint of sadness in her eyes that quickly go away. He briefly wonders why. “it didn't.”.  It roused his suspicion.  
  
“You chose an auspicious day to arrive at Dragonstone.” he looks toward Varys after addressing her.  He had some nerve to bring up such a topic, something that he was also guilty of. “We've just decided to pardon those who served the wrong king.” Varys bows his head in recognition, before Daeron returns his attention back to Melisandre. “The Lord of Light doesn't have many followers in Westeros, does he?” he couldn't further alienate himself with a foreign religion, not when the Lords of Westeros already saw him as an invader.  
  
“Not yet. But even those who don't worship the Lord can serve his cause.” he raises an eyebrow at that.  
  
“What does your Lord expect from me?” but when he asks, she returns to the Valyrian tongue.

“Se Bantāzma iksis māzis. Mērī se dārilaros qilōni iksin promised kostagon maghagon se ñāqes.”  
  
“The princess who was promised will bring the dawn. I'm afraid I'm not a princess.” he replied humorously.  
  
“Your Grace, forgive me, but your translation is not quite accurate. That noun has no gender in High Valyrian, so the proper translation for that prophecy would be the prince or princess who was promised will bring the dawn.” Missandei politely intercedes  
  
“Doesn't really roll off the tongue, does it?” Tyrion quipped.  
  
“No,” he shrugs “but I like it better.”He turns to face the Red Woman again. “And you believe this prophecy refers to me?”  
  
That somber look returns to her face,“Prophecies are dangerous things. I believe you have a role to play, as does another. The Queen in the North, Lyarra Snow.” How many rulers are there? This country truly is divided.  
  
“Lyarra Snow? Ned Stark's bastard girl?” Tyrion remarks with sudden surprise. Which in turn takes him by surprise.  
  
“You know her?”  
  
“I met her once, when the usurper journeyed to Winterfell.  Then I saw her again when I traveled to the Wall, disguised as boy.” he reminisces with amusement in his eyes.   _He’s fond of this girl, let's hope this doesn't cloud his judgment._  
  
“And why do you think the Lord of Light singled out this...Lyarra Snow aside from the visions you've seen in the flames, that is?” Varys adds in.  
  
“When she was elected as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch she allowed the Wildlings south of the Wall to protect them from great danger. As Queen in the North she has united those Wildlings with the northern houses so together they may face their common enemy.” she says it with a hint of admiration in her tone, and he can see the impressed looks of his advisor’s.

 

For a woman to make it that for in this society, based on merit alone, is truly an accomplishment. “She sounds like quite a woman.”.  
  
Melisandre nods at this, “Summon Lyarra Snow. Let her stand before you and tell you things that have happened to her, the things that she has seen with her own eyes.”  
  
“I can't speak to prophecies or visions in the flames, but I like Lyarra Snow and I trusted her, and I am an excellent judge of character.” Tyrion says almost passionately, and it makes him smile at his Hand. “If she does rule the north, she would make a valuable ally. The Lannisters executed her father and conspired to murder her brother. Lyarra Snow has even more reason to hate Cersei than you do.”. Daeron pauses for a moment thinking it through. _Lyarra Snow._  They name resounded in his mind.  She would be a valuable ally indeed.  If the northern lords follow her, and she agrees to bend the knee, then perhaps they won't be as reluctant to do so aswell.   _That's half of Westeros alone._ He began to feel confident in the plan.  
  
“Very well. Send a raven north. Tell Lyarra Snow that her King invites her to come to Dragonstone... _and bend the knee_ .”. he doesn't miss the crestfallen look on Tyrion’s face before it fades away. _How strange for him to feel for a girl he hasn't seen in years, that he's only seen twice in his lifetime.  She must be a remarkable woman._

* * *

 

**_The White Wolf_ **

 

The battle still resounded within her mind.  The smell of death still wafted in the air from the field's beyond, the smell of blood piss and shit. When she closes her eyes it is as if she is standing in that field again, the battle cries and moans of fallen men around her.  She remembered the way she suffocated beneath their bodies, gasping for air. Then the image morphed into a cold yard, men in black all surrounding her. Looks of regret and determination woven into their face.  Men who she called brothers for the past five years, some men who she'd rather not.  But they were anyway, by duty.  Even when her real brothers were dropping like flies.  Some men who she trusted with her identity, with who she really was.  How quickly they exposed her to bring others to their side. How they ripped of her clothes, skin pale and bare for all to see. How they forced her onto the ground and… she remembered thinking on that story Robb and Theon would tell her, when it happened.  When she'd make bold declarations of joining the Night's Watch.  The story of Brave Danny Flint, it was enough to scare any girl who had such intentions, but not her.  How foolish she had been, a stupid naive bastard girl, with unrealistic dreams. The gods played a cruel trick on her with that, making her believe she actually had a chance for so long.  How lucky she had been those few times, to have made friends with Grenn, Pyp, and Sam and meet men like Jeor Mormont, Aemon Targaryen and Qhorin Halfhand and Mance. To have met Ygritte, with her grey-blue eyes and hair kissed by fire (warm like her kisses and her touch), the little time they had with each other.  Even Stannis Baratheon, who saw through her mummer's farce right away.  Luck had been on her side, until it wasn't.

 

She didn't even scream, not once, she felt to dead inside to scream.  Far more dead than she did now.  Was vaguely aware of the knives that punctured her skin, for her body was already numb and cold.  It felt more like sharp thorns pricking the skin, than literal stab wounds. It all seemed to happen so fast than it actually did. Only now does she recollect every detail, from her shallow breathing, the light snow that began to fall, and Ghost howling in the far distance.  The biting cold she felt on her naked form, despite the warm bodies that would take their turns with her. How strange it was, that no one seemed to make a sound that night. Until someone, Olly she thinks, was kind enough to end it all. A quick thrust to the heart. _And now my watch has ended._

 

Lyarra had cursed the Red Witch for bringing her back to this world, that was destined for doom. _The Lord of light still has use of you,_ she had said, on the eve of  battle, when Lyarra begged her not to bring her back if she fell, _when_ she fell. Lyarra had been determined to die as she was to live.  Though the purpose to live only returned when Sansa did, before that she had been ready to end it all, to slit her wrist and bleed out. But she was certain they didn't have a fighting chance, that the gods were cruel enough to bring her back only to kill her again. She had hoped so. What was the point of living when you had nothing to live for?  The Night's Watch had been her life, and the Nights Watch betrayed her, murdered her in cold blood.  

 

What a pious woman she was, that Red Woman, even after failing, after being wrong, she still continued on in her faith.  In a divine being above her.  Lyarra doesn't know what she feels for the gods anymore.  They are such cruel beings, to ignore the calls and prayers by those devoted to them. To enstore such twisted fates to each and everyone.  To take her life, in the most gruesome of ways, only to bring her back.  Only to force her to carry on, to live and to fight when she'd rather have the sweet release of death. _You'll be fighting their battles forever, Snow._ Perhaps Thorne had the right of it, for here she was, preparing for yet another war.  One she wasn't sure they could win.

 

No one was prepared for the coming storm, the northern lords and ladies did not see the gravity of the situation, not even Sansa.  But at least they've heeded some of her words, for one thing was certain, _winter is here._ They needed to stock up on food, furs, armor,wood and most of all, dragon glass. If they wanted to have a fighting chance that is.  Once again she's thrown into a position, where people are depending on her, are relying on her, and she doesn't have the resources to do so.

 

She made her way to the Great Hall, looking down at the parchment in hand, _all dwarves are bastards in their father's eyes,_ it seemed like that was lifetime ago, almost as if it never happened,( _a memory that wasn't really her own)_ when he first told her that.  When he was just the bane of house Lannister and she the bastard of Winterfell. _How things have changed over the years._

 

She didn't have the resources, but she could get them. Davos had a point, this Daeron Targaryen had three grown fire breathing dragons.  With just one of them they could stand a chance against the Army of the Dead, against the Night's King.  His cold blue eyes flashed in her mind, staring her down almost challenging, raising the fallen free folk with a simple rise of his hands.  She no longer felt fear or dread when she thought on him, just undying hatred and rage.  Lyarra fed off of it, as fuel to keep her living, keep her fighting, to give her more purpose. For Sansa, for Sam and Gilly and little Sam, for the people who still have a will to live.

 

 _The north remembers,_ they all whisper.   _We know no King or Queen but the Queen in the North whose name is Stark._   _But I'm not a Stark, and I'm not a queen, that's all Sansa and yet they choose me._ That still bothered her. She knows it's because of who she is, because of what she accomplished.  She joined the Night's Watch, manned and protected the Wall from wildling foes, rose to be the Lord Commander because they chose her, unknowingly putting a woman in the position. She faced the Bolton army against all odds, she didn't stand from the sidelines, she fought side by side with her men.  And it would have all been for nothing had Sansa not called on the Lord's of the Vale.  But the north overlooked that.  All they saw was a pretty face in a pretty dress, another Tully all in but name. They didn't see the ice that Lyarra saw.  The sharp wit that was hidden beneath those blue eyes.  Didn't take her hardships or trials into consideration.  She isn't a warrior, she's never fought in any battles or ruled.  But she's capable, she has potential, and not every battle is fought with swords.

 

It stung Sansa, even though she tried to hide it, and it surprised Lyarra, when they had declared for her.   _A she-wolf through and through,_ some had declared. _The White Wolf. The Queen in the north. A true Queen of Winter. The Queen they choose._ _But not delicate little Sansa, she's not northern enough._ _She's not like you_ , is what they truly mean, _nearly equal to a man yourself._ But Sansa had smiled through the bitterness she felt, as Lyarra stood there dazed, not knowing what to do. _Prepare them. Use your position to prepare  them,_ it was the only reason why she didn't reject their declaration, why she didn't pass it to Sansa.  For her interest lies south, instead of north, with the real danger lurking beyond the Wall.

 

That reminded her of the raven Sam sent her, the scroll currently in her other hand.  It seemed the odds were luring her to this dragon king, because according to her friend, there's a mountain of dragon glass beneath Dragonstone.  Enough to make hundreds, possibly thousands, of arrows, daggers and other weapons. He had everything she could ever need for the coming war.   _A chance to fight back._ Now all she needed was his alliance.  That was going to be the hard part, to convince him to do so, to convince him the enemy is north and not south.

 

Ghost was forever on her trail, always a step behind her, sometimes she had to make sure not to walk on his feet.  He was always near, never leaving her side, not after what happened when he wasn't.  She was clad in her usual black leather pants, and gambeson that was a little too big on her frame, but it kept her warm under the large fur cloak that Sansa made her.  Lyarra walked in the Great Hall, making her way to the dais.  All the northern lords began to pour in, taking seats in the trestle tables below her.  Sansa already sits in the dais when she stops before it.  Her hand raises, beholding the message in hand, “This message was sent to me by Samwell Tarly. He was my brother at the Night's Watch. A man I trust as much as anyone in this world. He's discovered proof that Dragonstone sits on a mountain of Dragonglass.” The lords began to murmur amongst themselves. She hands the scroll to the nearest lord she sees, Lord Glover, she thinks. This was going to be the difficult part, convincing them that she needs to leave, she can already feel the anxiety building inside, but braces herself for what she says next, pulling out Tyrion’s message, “I received this a few days ago from Dragonstone. It was sent to me by Tyrion Lannister.” their voices begin to rise at this, but she continued on, “He's now Hand of the King to Daeron Targaryen.  He intends to take the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister. He has a powerful army at his back and if this message is to be believed, three dragons.”.  They speak amongst themselves again, with looks of concern.  She swallows,“Lord Tyrion has invited me to Dragonstone to meet with Daeron and I'm going to accept.” cries of indignation reverberate throughout the room. “We need this Dragonglass, My Lords. We know that Dragonglass can destroy both White Walkers and their army. We need to mine it and turn it into weapons.” some begin to nod in agreement, but others aren't so convinced. “ But more importantly, we need allies. The Night King's army grows larger by the day. We can't defeat them on our own. We don't have the numbers. Daeron has his own army and he has dragon fire. I need to try and persuade him to fight with us. Ser Davos and I will ride for White Harbor tomorrow, then sail for Dragonstone.”  
  
“Have you forgotten what happened to our grandfather? The Mad King invited him to King's Landing and roasted him alive.” Sansa quickly interjects, Lyarra throwing her a look.  Now is not the time to bring up old feuds from nearly two decades ago.  And yet she is right.  This is the Mad king's son.  
  
“I know that.”  
  
She presses on, “He is here to reclaim the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms. The north is one of those seven kingdoms. This isn't an invitation, it's a trap.”  
  
“It could be, but I don't believe Tyrion would do that. You know him. He's a good man.”Lord Royce stands up and turns to face her, gaining her attention.  
  
“Your Grace, with respect I must agree with Lady Sansa. I remember the Mad King all too well. A Targaryen cannot be trusted, nor can a Lannister.” The other lord's shout in agreement.  All adding into the statement.  
  
“We called your brother king, and then he rode south and lost his kingdom.” she felt a dull ache at the mention of Robb.  She never got to say goodbye.  
  
“Winter is here, Your Grace. We need the Queen in the North _in_ the north.” Lyanna Mormont says, and the lords pound the tables in agreement.

 

 _No, I have to make them see reason in this.  They chose me as their queen, chose me to lead them, and that is what I intend to do._ “You all crowned me your queen. I never wanted it, I never asked for it, but I accepted it because the north is my home. It's part of me and I will never stop fighting for it, no matter the odds. But the odds are against us.” the hall falls to silence once again “None of you have seen the Army of the Dead. None of you.” _you've never seen those cold dead eyes stare into your own._ “ We can never hope to defeat them alone. We need allies, powerful allies. I know it's a risk. But I have to take it.”  
  
“Then send an emissary. Don't go yourself.” she can hear the hints of worry in her voice, and Lyarra almost feels guilty for doing this, for leaving her sister alone again. _But she will endure and so will I, we've both had worse._  
  
“Daeron is a king. Only a _queen_ can convince him to help us. It has to be me.” The worry seeps from her eyes, replaced with the tinge of bitterness. _Gods, Sansa.  Why can't you see that I'm doing this for you, so you may live on when I cannot?_  
  
“You're abandoning your people. You're abandoning your home.” _you're abandoning me,_ is left unsaid but she hears it all the same.  
  
“I'm leaving both in good hands.”  
  
“Who's?” she replied curtly.  
  
“Yours.” she looks slightly taken aback by that, before nodding in recognition. “You are my sister. You are the only Stark in Winterfell. Until I return, the north is yours.” _if I return_.

 

* * *

 

The crypt is damp and cold when she enters it, the torch light beginning to dim.She stands there, looking at her father,and it takes everything in her to keep the tears at bay.  She never got to say goodbye to him either, the last time she ever saw him was at the feast that took place in Winterfell, where everything first started to go wrong.Gods she misses him, and she tries to think back on that moment he gave her a pretty silver ring for her one and ten nameday, the one she wears now.  She tried to think on that time he first taught her how to shoot an arrow.  Those moments when he wasn't lord Stark but her father,  when he’d playfully entertain the idea of her using a sword, and spar with her. When she was little and she'd beg him to toss her in the air because she knew he'd be there to catch her when she falled. _I’m not making it any better,_ she pushed the memories away, _I just wanted to say goodbye this time. I'm sorry for never saying goodbye.  Uncle Ben told me how heartbroken you were when I left, and so I'm sorry. You probably thought I left because of you, because you thought that I thought you didn't love me,_ she pressed her palm against his statue, _but I love you so much father and...and I think of you everyday.  I'm so sorry that I hurt you_ . Her attempts fail her, and she feels them roll down her lips and cheeks.  She quickly wipes them away. _Not now. Just not now, Lyarra._ It's good timing to, because she hears someone approach from behind, turning only to see Lord Baelish.  She doesn't hide her disdain, staring at him cold eyes, but he doesn't seem to care.  
  
“I delivered his bones myself. I presented them to Lady Catelyn as a gesture of goodwill from Tyrion Lannister. It seems like a lifetime ago. Do give Lord Tyrion my best when you see him.” she grimaces at that, what right did this man have to speak of her father, to be down here?  As if she wants to hear the tale of how his bones were delivered?  She turns to face her father's statue again, trying to imagine him as nothing but bones in a crate, and she thanks gods it doesn't work.  All she can see is his gentle smile and deep grey eyes looking down at her.  
  
Baelish looks up at the statue, his grin never abating, “I was sorry when he died.” she highly doubted that from the way he looked on at her father's grave “Your father and I had our differences but he loved Cat very much. So did I. She wasn't fond of you, was she? Well, it appears she vastly underestimated you. Your father and brothers are gone, yet here you stand Queen in the North. Last best hope against the coming storm.” she can hear the mocking gesture in his tone, as if this entire situation is a joke, as if she's a joke. _Vastly underestimated._ What was this weasel of a man trying to imply?  
  
Lyarra turns around once again to face him, “You don't belong down here.” she says with a grimace.  
  
His smirk only seems to widen,“Forgive me. We have never talked properly. I wanted to remedy that.”  
  
“I have nothing to say to you.” she quickly retorts. She moves past him ready to make her way out of this dreaded conversation.  
  
“Not even thank you?” but that halts her steps. She grabs the pommel of Longclaw,hands gripping tightly, “If it weren't for me you'd have been slaughtered at that battlefield. You have many enemies, My queen, but I swear to you I'm not one of them. I love Sansa as I loved her mother.” she moves so fast the blade is only a blur in her vision when she draws it. The tip of the sword is pressed against his throat ever so lightly, his back against the wall. She presses a little harder, drawing a tiny trickle of blood.  ‘ _I love Sansa as I loved her mother,’_ echoed in her mind, making her skin crawl.   _He has no right._  She can see his face pale and body tremble, but she doesn't even bother to smile at the fear she's put in him.  She has half a mind to end him here, to spray his blood on the walls, until she remembers where she is.

 

 _This isn't respectful_ , it calms her slightly, “ Touch my sister and I'll kill you myself.” she removes her blade from his throat, placing it back in her scabbard. Leaving the crypt without another glance.

 

She spots Davos in the courtyard, astride a horse with another waiting for her.  She goes to him, climbing on top her own. Feeling eyes on her she turns back to see Sansa, she stands there on the upper level, looking every bit the lady she knows she is.   _She will be fine, she's handled herself for so long._ Lyarra smiled waving at her, and she waves back.  They ride out of the courtyard after, a few personal guards not far behind. Ghost sits by Sansa's side, keeping the promise made days ago, to protect anyone whose name is Stark.  _We both have_ .


	2. Chapter 2

Hey guys!

 

So, I know I had once said I would be quitting this story in the note on Our great glory and our great tragedy, but I've regained inspiration and will be diving back in after @BySpaceByTime finishes the prequels: Bondage and unknown title for fem Jon, which you should definitely check out by the way.  We talked a little via email and tumblr (@theicedragons and @womenofthenightswatch if you wish to know) and have decided to work together on this fan-fiction.  So once she finishes, we'll both start on this together.  This means editing and revising, perhaps even scraping but I assure you it will be worth it. I hope you guys still tune in once the prequels are done! In the mean time I should be updating The Burning Tower more often than not.  That's about it.  If you have any questions feel free to ask and I will answer as best as I can.  There will also be different face claims, just in case you were curious. 

**Author's Note:**

> For the Face Claim search Taylor Kitsch with long hair for male Daenerys or Alex Pettyfer. I prefer Ed Marquezini.
> 
> Anna Christine Speckhart (I prefer you to search GIFs for Anna. The girl is just majestic.) or Sarah Brannon for fem Jon.


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